


Dried up

by DamadiSangue



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: BDSM, Ball Gag, Chains, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 13:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12960438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DamadiSangue/pseuds/DamadiSangue
Summary: It had begun as a game;allstarted like that, no?Even the extermination of the human race.It had begun to infect small things, harmless in appearance: an exchange of roles that had made both just more supple, soft.Alex had hidden the marks under her long-sleeved shirts, white sweats: Albert carried his deeper -underthe skin - and only his eyes threatened to betray him.





	Dried up

"We fucked a flame into being."  
\- D.H. Lawrence -

**Dried up**

 

  
**You cut off all of your fingers,**  
**trade them in for dollar bills.**

  
Sushestvovanie breathes slowly, _quiet._  
A handful of rocks crushed by the sea, claws and teeth of an island sitting on the edge of the world.  
Alex stretches out her hand, brushes with her thumb his eyes - irides dull, opaque.  
Wesker relaxes under her fingers, _bends._  
"It's not how you imagined it, uhm?"  
Pale eyelashes that shade liquid, blodless eyes.  
Alex smiles, and it's a terrible vision - a cruel cut on her beautiful face.  
"Oh, Albert: if only you _could_ see yourself."  
She breathes in the hollow of his neck, naked teeth, rubbing against his skin - a bite that never comes.  
"If only you could feel what **I** feel."  
Wesker murmurs something and Alex spreads her smile - _laughs_ , and it's a heavy sound, _full._  
She then slides the index finger on the red ball between Albert's teeth, _pushes:_ releases a satisfied groan at Wesker's _delightfully_ astonished expression.  
The drum of his heart covers every other sound.

**Cake on some more make-up to,**  
**cover all those lines.**

It had begun as a game; _all_ started like that, no?  
Even the extermination of the human race.  
It had begun to infect small things, harmless in appearance: an exchange of roles that had made both just more supple _, soft._  
Alex had hidden the marks under her long-sleeved shirts, white sweats: Albert carried his deeper - _under_ the skin - and only his eyes threatened to betray him.

 _Anxious. Restless._ Aware.

Alex massages her wrist, slides with her fingertips in the wound that his fingers have left - the Progenitor a constant tingling, pins and needles in her belly, between her legs.  
She lays her gaze on the phone, raises it when it vibrates - _Tomorrow_ , says the message.  
_A,_ is signed.  
The display illuminates in blue and white her cheeks, turns her in a golden statue - she doesn't answer, because it's _how the game starts._  
Alex closes her eyes and waits.

  
**Wake up and stop shaking,**  
**cuz you're just wasting time.**

Pain is a dimension to which they are accustomed; it is part of their nature and they return to it every _fucking_ ~~time~~ life.  
They don't fear it, they don't avoid it: they accept it as the inevitable corollary of their life and a _necessary_ evolution - because every birth is impregnated with blood and _black._  
He could get rid of them when he wanted: he could get up, tear those _ridiculous_ chains and roll them around her throat, inverting the roles and bringing her to a sore, _raw_ orgasm.  
He could use the Progenitor to send away her and strike her so _deeply_ to leave her breathless for days.  
Alex is naked above him - wet _and_ damp _and_ ready.  
She touches the curve of the leather, the metal hook - _pulls_ , and Albert arches backward, red lines on his neck, around it.  
Alex leans toward him, touches his lips in a half kiss, mocking.  
"Shall we begin?"  
Between his thighs Albert is painfully hard.

  
**Don't you want some of this?**  
**Don't you need some of this?**

The first time it had been unexpected: an involuntary reflex.  
On her face an innocent Lover of gold and blood, between her thighs _him._  
Bent between her legs, _kneeling,_ Albert was a demanding, _ruthless_ tongue.  
Excella's orchestra had played Scarlatti - The Glory of Spring - and Alex had arched back with such force to feel the vertebrae cracks.  
He had searched for her mouth, her breasts - the thumb fondle a nipple, tighten until her breath was taken away.  
Under the mask were fake glass eyes, blue _and_ cruel _and_ old - dead eyes for a dead man.  
Above, a baroque Devil in gold and zircons devoured what remained of her, of her _conscience._  
Alex had touched his cheekbones - _enough_ \- his shoulders - _I don't think..._ \- she then had stopped at the throbbing line of his carotid, shivering - _please._  
Wesker gives her a wolf smile and _thrusts._

  
**You take but cannot be given,**  
**you ride but cannot be ridden.**

Between her fingers _him_ \- his surrender, his desire.  
Alex runs his cock in all his length, presses the index finger along the main vein - smiles at the involuntary raise of his hips.  
"You _can't_ move."  
Wesker curls his lips on his teeth, pants - damp between his thighs, on his mouth.  
"You _can't_ come."  
The headboard of the bed _shakes_ \- flexes under his force, his _desperation._  
"Not _yet_."  
Alex tilts her chin to the right, raises herself, slides between them - _in her_ \- then stretches her fingers to his face, _wet._  
"What a wonderful _whore_ you are, Albert." she only says, and she is beautiful while she denies him _everything_ \- voice, thought, _orgasm._  
She is beautiful as she releases him - she accepts the weight of the power and make it hers, wearing his skin, his scars.  
She breathes on his mouth, he licks her thumb - **his** taste, **her** will.  
Wesker tries to swallow - _fails -_ feels a dull growl between the ribs, in his abdomen.  
Alex sits on her heels and _smiles._

  
**Pinch this tiny heart of mine,**  
**wrap it up in soiled twine;**  
**you never read what you've written.**

He hurts her.  
He hurts her and Alex _cries_ , burns, accepts his thrusts - she melts in a sharp orgasm, cruel.  
Wesker takes off his mask, _throws_ hers to the ground - takes her chin between the thumb and the index finger, _pulls._  
"Look at me." he orders, and that's **when** Alex reacts.  
She doesn't do it purposely; she doesn't even notice it.  
She presses her hands on his neck, _sinks_ with the rest of her fingers along the erratic pulse under his skin - _yells_ , and is a lump of anger _and_ desire _and_ hunger _and._..  
Albert releases an _obscene_ groan.

  
**I'll be your lover, I will be forever.**  
**I'll be tomorrow, I am anything when I'm high.**

The room is dark, _damp._  
The air around them is dense, a viscous substance made of sex and blood.  
Alex observes Wesker moving his head to the right, then to the left; she studies the tendons in the calf _flutter_ , the thigh muscles roll under the skin like hungry snakes.  
She accepts **every** curse, **every** supplication: she let them burn in her skin, her thoughts; an abrasion on the memory's flesh.  
And she's sore, hungry - _dripping._  
She touches his foot, surprisingly soft; she counts his fingers one by one, her gaze absent, far away.  
She surrounds his ankle with her thumb and index fingers, and he shakes under her hands, and when she stops at his groin he keeps his breath, _hopes._

 _Oh, and just the_ thought _that Albert Wesker is hoping you are_ so kind _to give him the grace of an orgasm - that she is_ so gentle _to take his erection and_ licks _what remains of his desire and_ continues _until he becomes nothing more than a mass of muscle_ and _skin_ and _confused words_ and. _.._

Alex slides along his body and _surrenders._

  
**Don't you want some of this?**  
**Don't you need some of this?**

Astonishment; this is her first reaction.  
Doubt, the second.  
A _cruel_ curiosity was the third one, and Alex pressed further, feeling him stiffened along his shoulders, between his thighs - _in her._  
She had looked at his eyes, half-closed - languid; reddish lines outlining a thin, blackish pupil.  
_What...?,_ the Progenitor had murmured for her, but Albert's desperate moan was a more than adequate answer.  
For a moment - a stolen breath - nothing moves.  
White satin rolled around her hips, blood between their thighs - under the fingers.

_Alex._

Blue silk wet from both - Armani leather and gold.

_Albert._

Above them, the sky exploded, a shade of lights and colors - fires that die at every breath.  
Alex moves forward - _sank_ \- presses - _again_ \- conquers - _**always.**_  
Albert hides his face in the hollow of her neck and _comes_ with an intensity that almost frightens her.

_Almost._

  
**You shove your hair down my throat,**  
**I feel your fingers in me.**

Outside that room he is Albert Wesker, the lord of the new world, the winning card in a rigged game.  
Between the aborted words she is Alex Wesker, the loser, the (un)worthy: the wrong bet.  
Behind the mask of the Devil and the Lover there are two dead people, forgotten: characters of an absurd theater to which they are called to respond by name and legacy.  
Alex can feel him in her, opens her - unfold her to a feeling that never had a single name.  
And there are small bites between their thighs, _desperately_ pleasurable.  
They are the bites of a feeling they have never called - free to fight, to hurt, _to fuck_ , not to love.  
They conquered to surrender, demanding to plead.  
They suffocated to breathe, shouted for silence words that should not have existed - not for _them._  
Alex rolls the leash around her wrist, _pulls_ , and perceives Albert's muscles tighten, resist.  
She slides between his hips, closes her eyes - she attracts him to her with a dry blow of her arm.  
The chains contract, affect his skin - blood along his wrists, between the sheets.  
Albert's breath shortens - Alex's accelerates.  
Wesker presses his teeth in the red ball of the gag, _breaks_ it - he bleeds again.  
He let his head bend over his shoulders, groans, opens his mouth, pants - his lungs _collapse_ , they fold in themselves.  
The Progenitor _roars_ between their cells, **yells** \- and Alex with him.  
Orgasm is a liquid stream which hurt both.

  
**Tear this bitter fruit to mess,**  
**and wrap it in your soiled dress;**  
**now you must spit out the seeds.**

A white satin Saint Laurent - _dirty_ : gold and diamonds around her neck, between her breasts (collier Maillon Panthère with pavé, Cartier) - _ripped_ ; Alex is a messy profile clinging to his shoulders, in her hair orchid petals and grass wires.  
She pants slightly, eyes moving frantically from one point to the other in the garden.  
Music is over, the charade dropped; Albert breathes quietly in the soft fold of her neck, soothes her skin with his tongue, his lips.  
The Princess is looking for her Prince, but the Beast has snatched the mask - a Devil that only the Lover had seen.  
Alex closes her eyes, buried her nose in the collar of his shirt - in his scent, maninka and leather.  
He massages the nape of her neck with his fingers, kissing her at the temple - a comforting, _grateful_ gesture.  
Alex opens her eyes again, rubs the blue silk under her fingertips - she listens to him murmur her name, still in her ( **always**.)  
Strange how power is nothing more than a shadow.

  
**All dried up and tied up forever.**  
**All fucked up and dead to the world.**

The water is lukewarm on their skin, in the wounds; wash away blood, fatigue.  
Alex lets her fingers slide through Albert's hair, breathes amber and cedarwood.  
She massages his shoulders, smiles at his back - she counts the vertebrae one by one, lurking along the curve of his buttocks, the fibrous muscles of his thighs.  
"This time I almost choked you. _Almost_."  
Wesker just bent his head toward her, eyes closed, lips stretched out in a relaxed fold.  
"Uhm." it's all he says, and Alex _laughs_ \- a short, light sound, like her hands on his chest, down his abdomen - between his legs, playing with a satisfied, silent desire.  
And then they return to their roles - Albert Wesker and Alexandra Wesker: subject # 13, subject # 12.  
Worthy, unworthy.  
Strong, weak.  
Executioner, victim.  
That's how Albert resumes power - its responsibilities, its _weight_ \- and leaves Alex free.  
That is how Alex returns to him a crown she never really wanted, a role she doesn't belong to.

_Not always._

Alex encircles his waist with her arms, presses her forehead between his shoulder blades - sighs, and hears the water sliding along her legs pool to her feet.  
Wesker intertwines his fingers with hers and breathes at the rhythm of her heart.

  
**Dear god the sky is as blue,**  
**as a gunshot wound.**

  
It is a nascent Siderea, Excella; beautiful _, young._

_Dear to the gods._

Silver and leather curves hide a perfect, aristocratic face: behind the mask her eyes are shining - _full_.  
"It was a _magnificent_ party."  
She clutches Albert's fingers between hers, seeks him - **venerates** him.

_Have I been good, my God?_

"Investors are so excited about it."

_Can I have my prize, now?_

She runs with the tip of her finger the folds of his shirt, stops just below the navel - where Alex's orgasm left a translucent and damp spot.  
She turns out, stares at her - and it's not the Lovers - _not anymore_ \- Alex, but a white and black Nemesis.  
" _Dr. Fayer_."  
Alex tilts her head to the right - a careful, curious gesture.

_Mocking._

"Excella; you are quite _gorgeous_ tonight."  
She doesn't even notice, but her body has already instinctively bent toward Albert - in Siderea's eyes a _brave_ and _proud_ Romeo.  
Wesker gives her a sharp glance - _cruel._

_The Devil and his all thousands lies._

Alex breathes between their thoughts and _tightens._

  
**Dead is what he is.**  
**He does what he please;**  
**the things that he has**  
**you'll never want to see.**

"It's snowing."  
Alex looks at the horizon, her hair still wet on the tips.  
She wears a shirt too large ( **his** ) a face too clean ( **for him** ) and she reaches him in silence, her arms crossed under her breast, her eyes transparent.  
Sushestvovanie is covered with white and gray - the snow softens spikes of rock and mud.  
Alex breathes in - a colorless and icy air.  
"The helicopter is already waiting for me."  
"I know."  
Wesker searches for her eyes, he only finds her profile - young, _fragile._  
Alex moves to the bed, collects one of the chains that dangles from the headboard - slides with her thumb along the blood stains.  
And there is a flexure in the room - _a_ _slip._  
A telluric shock, a _change._  
Alex lifts up her face, looks at him - the chain in her hand, in her eyes _nothing._

**All.**

Albert stands her glance - the Beast is back in control - he looks at her to uncover a sheet, pulling the broken gag out.  
She smiles, throwing it to the side - she approaches him.

 _Ethereal, pale: red on her cheekbones,_ inside - _where she had bled **for** him, **with** him._

Wesker doesn't step back, doesn't give up.

_The masks are back in their place - the Devil and the Lover: the Beast and his ~~innocent~~ Bella._

Alex stands up on her toes (small, healthy fingernails: laced with a pale pink, slightly golden) stretches to his neck - touches the leather of his jacket, that of the waistband: dancing along the knit hinge, playing with the metallic tug.

**Clack.**

"A reminder." she tells him, and goes back, hiding her hands behind her back - falsely embarrassed.  
Wesker brings a hand to his throat, follows the contours of a black **_and_ ** gold collar - the ardiglione inserted in the third hole from the left.  
"Go ahead." Alex excuses him "Excella will be waiting for _you_."  
In the pale light of the dawn Alex is a cruel and timeless creature.

  
********

  
**Just remember when you think you're free,**  
**the crack inside your fucking heart is me.**

A game, nothing more: an exchange of roles, the possibility of being another person, even if for one night only.  
The irony of seeing a chained predator, the satisfaction of hearing him _beg_ , invoking her name, her clemency.  
A farce, a spectacle: masks that leaked from their skin like dissolved wax, squashy reproductions of thousand identities and none.  
Alex taps the index fingernail on the desk, studying the T-Phobos molecules swaying lazily in the laptop screen.  
She lays her face against the closed fist, crossing her long legs - rolls in her free hand a leather and fiberglass whip.  
The phone vibrates, brightens with a soft white light.

_Tonight._

Alex laughs, slides with the tip of the whip along her black clad thigh, her lips bow in a sharp smile.

_A._

Let's play?

 

  
**"Everything in the world is about sex, except sex.**  
**Sex is about power."**  
**\- Oscar Wilde -**

  



End file.
